I once worked with a guy who didn’t like cheese.

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He was fucking impossible to deal with. Intensely manipulative, moody, and mean. He made rape jokes and used the c-word as well as being predictably anti-semitic. He was thin, and there were times when his whole frame vibrated with rage and incredulity at the incompetence of someone else (often me). And yet, despite knowing what he was, others vied for his approval, probably because it was just such a relief not to be the target of his ire. Because he brought in the most money, he was the darling of the company, and the fledgling sales staff modeled their behavior on his. When snark, sarcasm, and general shittiness became the norm, I left. By then, some of my co-workers had decided I knew a lot but was still “dumb.” These were provincial younger people, of the sort I’ve met before: the kind that thinks a doctor can be an idiot because s/he has a softer manner than do they themselves.

Sigh.

Maybe he’d have been a better co-worker if he’d liked cheese. Probably not, but perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.

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